Shot Glass

Sam Gangi's picture

The table was set. Just as it had been every night since she lost her job at the brokerage firm two years ago. The oval shaped coffee table had been a gift from her now deceased father in-law. A memento from one of the many hobbies he had embarked upon before cancer took him just shy of his seventy-fifth birthday. It’s hand crafted walnut finish sat in contrast between her and a high-end entertainment center that once stood as a status symbol for their affluence and success; right in front of her husband’s favorite easy-chair. For this was his spot not hers. She was merely setting the stage for the rude awakening that was about to take place.

It was after all, her education and labors that had bestowed the comfortable life for the three of them. She was the bread winner of the family; she welcomed his father into their home and cared for him in his aging years, she pacified and supported her husband’s artistic passions, regardless of his lack of talent. Now, times were tough. She was one of the many highly educated financial advisor casualties this economic meltdown left in its wake; and the odds of rekindling her career at this stage of her life were slim to none, "And slim just left town" (The voice in her head clichéd.) What was his contribution anyways? Lately… not much more than night after night of sour mash and coke, micro waved pot-pie, and water-colored trails. -TO BE CONTINUED